


Goretober

by Emptynarration



Category: Youtube RPF, Youtube egos
Genre: Blood, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Bruises, Bugs & Insects, Cannibalism, Corpses, Cutting, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Fights, Fist Fights, Goretober, Goretober 2019, Graphic Description of Corpses, Infestation, Mild Blood, Nosebleed, Other, Overdosing, Parasites, Pentagram, Rotting, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Sick Character, Vomiting, auto cannibalism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-23 18:41:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20894321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emptynarration/pseuds/Emptynarration
Summary: Just drabbles and short stories for a Goretober list I foundMainly the egos suffering, tags will be added as chapters are posted





	1. Infestation – Bugs, Parasites, Rotting

He could feel it.

The _maggots_. _Worms. Flies_._ Larva_.  
Crawling and writhing beneath his skin, pushing up the grey and dead skin over thin muscles, he was nothing, nothing but flesh, bones, and _larva_. Each time he looked down at himself, he could see them. Wriggling beneath his skin, close to breaking through.

At night, he couldn't breathe. He could feel the flies filling his lungs, wizzing around and pushing, until they came up his throat, and he was coughing, flies and maggots falling from his lips.

He was rotting.

The stench of death was following him with every step. His skin had changed colour, though it was always grey anyways, just going into other shades. He had dripped fluids from every opening his body had, staying away for days until it stopped.  
His skin had blistered, he had bloated up, before going back to mostly normal.  
Everything was falling off. His skin, his hair, his nails, everything was _loose_. He had spend time when he was bored picking off scraps off his skin on his arms, watching the rotting meat beneath.

Eyes sunken deep in his skull, blood settled in his hands and feet, though he wasn't so sure if he even still had blood, or if that had already dried up and clumped up inside his veins.

He was dragging himself through hallways, going through the motions. Skin bursting open in various places, flesh and skin falling off over and over, bones showing through until they, too, fell off.

The black entity that had taken ahold of him eons ago kept him moving, kept him working, kept him _alive_. And it kept him rotting, kept him decaying slowly, until he would be nothing but bones, and until these bones were reduced to dust.  
It kept him from getting eaten alive by maggots, by flies, by worms. It kept him from rotting alive, no matter how he felt himself falling apart each day.

Somehow he was living, somehow he wasn't a walking skeleton, somehow he was a body that had been dead for 10 hours, before getting up again, alive without breathing, without a heartbeat, with colours monochrome and body half in rigor mortis. Moving was hard, it hurt, his neck was broken, ribs were broken, he was for eternity shot in the stomach with organs ripped to pieces.  
He wasn't rotting until he was nothing but dust. He wasn't infested with maggots, and worms, and flies, and larva. But he _felt_ them. He _knew_.

He could tell his body was wasting away no matter what he did.


	2. Smile – Mouth trauma, Failed Dental Surgery

His hands were trembling as he stared into the mirror, holding a pocket knife.

He had to do this. Smiling meant you were happy after all, right? Of course! And everyone was always worried he _wasn't _happy, and he needed to change that. He needed to be sure that everyone knew he was happy. So, a smile was what he needed, right?

And since everyone knew when he was faking a smile -really, why did it always have to be so shaky? And uncertain? And just, not proper?- a permanent smile seemed like a good idea. He'd just... cut two lines into his cheeks and made sure he was always smiling. Smiling! Smiling was good. Smiling meant he was _happy_. And happy was what he wanted to be, and everyone else wanted him to be.

The tip of the knife graced the corner of his mouth, and he winced, whimpering, pulling it away from himself, with his breathing shaky. He could do this. He _would_ do this. Because he needed to. He needed to be happy. He needed the other to know he was happy. Because what if he wasn't? They'd get unnecessarily worried about him, and he really didn't need them to be bothered by him not smiling.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he was quick to cut from the corner of his mouth in a curve upwards, wincing as tears sprung to his eyes. It _hurt_. Of course it hurt, he was cutting himself after all, but... it was worse than he had imagined it to be.  
Peeking at the mirror again -sight a little blurry from tears- he saw a crooked curve going up his cheek, and he winced. It looked _terrible_. Maybe.. maybe making it thicker would work? He just... had to go slow. And look.  
He swallowed, setting the tip of the knife to the corner of his mouth again. Already a bit of blood was slowly making its way down his cheek.

Carefully, under a lot of pain, he cut deeper into his cheek, making the line nicer, and blood ran down to his chin to drip down into the sink below. He was whimpering from the pain, hands shaking violently as he looked at himself. Well, one side made it a smirk, right? And that wasn't good, not what he wanted.  
He whimpered, the sound soft and quiet in the silent bathroom, in the silent night.  
He forced himself to keep at least one eye open as he cut into his other cheek, making a matching cut to the other one. He was crying, his tears not helping the pain he was in at all.

He sobbed once he was done, knife dropping into the sink, and every littlle movement of his cheeks, and his mouth, and _everything_, it hurt. Everything hurt. But he was smiling now, he was happy now, and everyone would see it now too, right? It would be good now, no one would worry about him now.

He sobbed, curling tightly into himself, blood dripping from his cheeks and his chin and soaking into his shirt and clothes. He was glad he had left his little cloth on his bed, because he didn't want it bloodstained.  
But god it hurt, and god he hoped finally everyone knew he was happy.


	3. Black and Blue – Bruises, Bloody Nose

They had just gotten into an argument. He didn't even remember anymore what they had been arguing about. Their shift had just ended, and they had just gone to get some coffee near the hospital before parting ways to go home again. They had talked, and disagreed on something, and it had blown out of proportions.

He wasn't a fighter. He didn't like arguments, and he hated fighting. And he _never_ got physical. Maybe because he wasn't all that strong, maybe because he was just all around soft. Maybe just because he believed in resolving arguments peacefully.  
So when Henrik's fist connected with his jaw, making him sputter as his head turned to the side, and his jaw throbbed in pain, he had been entirely taken by surprise.  
He got shoved against a wall, a hand fisted his hair and yanked it back, just to hit it straight into the brick, making him gasp sharply as pain erupted from his nose. It was probably broken- and Henrik slammed his head against the wall again, and the world was spinning slightly, blood dripping from his nose.

When his hair was let go, he slowly turned around, leaning heavily against the wall. The other man was swimming in his sight, but he could see the hateful glare, and he wondered why that was. Maybe he hadn't been considerate enough about something or other.  
Henrik hit him in the stomach, pushing the air out of his lungs as he bend over, wrapping his arms around his middle. The other used that to grab his shoulder to just punch him into the chest, making him gasp sharply as there was no more air in his lungs.

“Stop-”, he tried, but Henrik grabbed his hair again to yank his head up to make him look at him, before he got a knee shoved right into his crotch, making him cry out and crumble as the other pushed him down on the ground.  
The first kick connected with the arms wrapped around his middle, and he winced, looking up at Henrik with tears in his eyes from the pain. It hurt, and he couldn't do anything to stop it. Even his chub wouldn't save him from this.

The next kicks were aimed at his legs and knees, all in quick succession and he curled up, sobbing as he was attacked, beaten until the other would hopefully cool down.  
There was a kick against his shoulder, making him yelp and turn onto his back, which gave Henrik the perfect opportunity to kick into his side with all his might, making him cry out in pain. He'd be covered in bruises, and blood was trickling down from his nose slowly as well.

He gave up on the hope of getting the other to stop, and just let him kick him as much as he wanted, until he was a sobbing mess on the ground, trembling as his whole body hurt. Why did it have to be like that? He didn't know, and he didn't understand, and he was certain there just wasn't anything he could do about it.

When Henrik was _finally_ done, he just. Looked down at him. He looked up at Henrik, tears dripping down his cheeks. And he _left_, just leaving him laying on the cold ground where he was shaking, crying, and in pain.  
Slowly pushing himself back p to sit, he cried out as his chest protested at the change. It hurt, his whole body was hurting, and he was certain that he wouldn't be able to see his skin underneath purples and blues once he dared to look.  
He slowly managed to stand up, leaning heavily against the wall, breathing heavily.

Everything _hurt_.


	4. Sick – Overdose, Poison, Vomit

He's heard of this before. Some... experimental pills. One of the docs had given it to him; he was pretty sure the german one. He was a weird one, and made his own medicine, and he generally had nothing to do with the others, so he was sure he could trust him more than their own doctor.  
Not that he even knew their doctor really, but since he was one of them, he didn't want to meet him anyways. That manor gave him the chills.

The back of the box said to take one once he felt tired, and some maybe side-effects he didn't give a shit about. As long as they kept him awake, and his brain functioning, he didn't care.  
He took a pill, washing it down with already cold tea, and went back to working. As long as they worked, he could get sick for all he cared about.

And it seemed to be working. He had been pretty tired previously, and it had only taken barely half an hour if he were to guess. He could easily work through the night like this, which made his whole life easier.

And it worked for a good while, nights went by easily and Author only sometimes passed out because his body refused to work anymore even with the pills, but he didn't really care.  
But he was losing time. Sometimes he found himself doing something or being somewhere, and he couldn't remember how he got there. His movements grew slower and more sluggish, and he found himself spacing out a lot, coming back to the moment without an idea what he had been doing though he knew he had been doing something.

He hoped more pills would help fix it. He was aware it was probably an addiction by now, because he felt he couldn't function without them, and that he _needed_ them to work _better_. He should stop, but he still had some, and he hoped more would fix the problem. Somehow.  
Instead he was poisoning himself with them, with how many he took on the regular. He felt nauseous a lot, dizzy, and eating resulted in him throwing up almost immediately, retching as his stomach was already empty, throat burning from stomach acid being forced through it.

It left him gasping for breath, kneeling on the bathroom floor, arms draped over the toiletseat as he tried to get back to himself and find the power to move again and get up. He'd rather stay laying on the cold tiles of the bathroom, and never have to move again, but the chances for that were pretty small, weren't they?  
Well, maybe they weren't, because he sometimes passed out right were he was after throwing up, waking up with the stench of vomit assaulting him, and making him wretch again on the spot.

He still had a few pills left. He wasn't sure how many. Counting them in his hand was impossible, so he just threw them into his mouth, swallowing them down. Gripping his pen in his hand, he couldn't focus on the paper in front of him. He was at his desk? Oh. He hadn't even really noticed he had gotten to his desk.  
He looked at the pen in his hand, and he felt sick. He looked at the papers on his desk, unable to read anything that was written, and he felt sick. The words in front of him were swimming and floating around him, and he felt confused.

Setting his pen to paper, he wasn't sure what he had even wanted to write. What had he been doing again? He couldn't remember. What? He was writing, or at least attempting to he supposed, if he was thinking at all, and what was he doing? His hand was moving, and he felt himself spacing out again, staring into nothingness.  
His whole world was spinning, and he felt unsafe sitting on his chair, and it all made him dizzy and nauseous again, and he felt ready to throw up again.  
Wanting to get off of his chair, he fell immediately, a groan leaving him as the sudden change of sitting to falling and laying made vomit rise in his throat.

His head was throbbing, he felt unable to properly breathe, and maybe he shouldn't have taken those pills from the get-go. He shifted to the side slightly, throwing up again -again? When had he thrown up last?- making a disgusting puddle of brown in front of him, and the smell alone was enough to make him cough and retch again, until his stomach was fully empty and his body was just convulsing from needing nutritions he hadn't gotten in days, maybe weeks.

His sight was fading, he couldn't focus or concentrate on anything anymore, the smell making him feel sick and the spinning world around him making him want to lay down, even though he was already laying on the ground.  
He closed his eyes, wishing for it to stop, for the world to stop spinning, and to not feel sick anymore, and everything be back to normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did u notice the chapters get longer each chapter lol


	5. Feast - Cannibalism or Auto Cannibalism

Someone had kidnapped him.

He wasn't really sure why, or when, or how, but he was restrained and tied to a chair, which was less than ideal. He was just a normal business man! He may be homeless, because his useless excuse of a son had gotten those freaks to throw him out, but still! Just a normal business man working for charity with his nice little warehouse!

The lights flickered on, making him blink and squint against it. Dress-shoes clicked against the stone ground, though he couldn't see anyone yet. He could see a vague shape walking around though, going in a circle around him?  
“Who the fuck are you?”, he asked, glaring, accent as strong as ever. He was missing his glasses, but thankfully he was far-sighted. So he supposed it didn't matter all too much currently.  
“Now, that's harsh. Rudeness doesn't get you anywhere.”, another voice chimed up, and he snarled. A man stepped into the light, wearing a dark dark purple suit -it seemed to be black though- with big fluffy hair and glasses.  
“I'm Bim Trimmer, and today, I will end you.”, Bim said with a wide grin, sending a shiver down his spine. Bim. That was one of those freaks, wasn't it? One of those his son had sided with instead of with him. Disgusting.

Bim didn't give him another chance to speak as he rammed a little knife into his thigh, making him cry out in pain.  
“You sick fuck!”.  
“Says the sick fuck.”, Bim scoffed, twisting the knife before pulling it out again, delighted in the other's screams. Bim cut open his pants then, throwing the piece of fabric away. He carefully cut out a piece of his flesh then, him screaming in pain as Bim did, making the show host laugh, enjoying his pain.  
“Now, open up~”, Bim hummed with a big grin, holding the piece of flesh in front of his mouth.

“Eat it yourself you psychopath!”, he growled, though also actually afraid. Bim was trying to feed him _himself_. It was disgusting, and he was in pain, blood coating his thigh and soaking into his pants.  
Bim shrugged, popping the piece of meat into his mouth, making him gag, as Bim just happily swallowed it, teeth bloody when he grinned at him again.  
“Now, one for me, one for you.”, Bim giggled, cutting another piece out of his thigh, and using the pained screams to throw the piece of bloody flesh into his mouth. Pressing his hand over his mouth, Bim made sure he had to swallow it.

It made him want to throw up as he was forced to swallow it, and he gagged and was almost ready to throw up when Bim pulled his hand away, retching and coughing. Bim made sure to keep his hand on his mouth and nose again when it seemed like he'd throw up, until he calmed down.  
“Now, that was just one bite! We have _so much more_ of you to go! Two legs, two arms, your torso... so much to eat.”, Bim licked his lips, grinning, and a cold shiver ran down his spine.

“Wouldn't want to waste such a perfectly tasty body after all, hm?”, Bim grinned wide, rows of teeth razor sharp, and he didn't look forward to being eaten alive, and being fed himself alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is much shorter than i wanted but i dont want to write this chapter anymore  
just imagine bim feeding derek all of his flesh to him until derek passes out and bim just eats him  
thx


	6. Ritual – Sacrifice, Possession, Demonic, Voodoo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dont care man

A circle of acorns and walnuts.

A star made out of sticks with nuts where the lines cross.

The middle of the night.

He was gathering everyone he knew and could find, so that they all would be together for this. It was a very special night tonight. A blood moon. It was shining a bright red in the sky, matching the bright red of his clothes, and the red-ish colour of their fur.

Once he was covered in squirrels, and had the rest following him, he went back to the little clearing. All of the squirrels gathered in circles around the pentagram, as he dropped bits of jam into the star.  
Saying words of gibberish, he and the squirrels looked up at the sky, all standing to attention.

And all of them, and him, chittered and chattered at the moon.

For peanut butter to never go bad.

For winter storaged nuts to always be found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what to even do with this prompt what even


End file.
